by JD Hawkins
I’ve had a steady stream of questions from Louise about what NYC’s like since I arrived, and each time I feel like I can give only a barely more insightful answer than I could have before I came. Pretty much all I’ve seen is the inside of various subway stations and a couple of bagel places. I’ve been here for ten days and even the weekend seemed to go by too fast to notice anything. I guess that’s why they call it a New York minute. It’s hard to really take in your surroundings when you’re working sixteen hour days.
I receive a message on my laptop from Cassandra, asking me to visit her in her office, and also notice that it’s nearly eight PM. I take a quick look around and—seeing how many other writers are still here—realize why I had no clue it was so late. After typing out the sentence I’m working on, I get up and rush to Cassandra’s tight, glass-walled corner office that looks out on a million dollar view of Central Park.
She gestures me inside impatiently, phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, and I drop into a seat across from the wide oak desk, numerous awards and heavy-looking books behind her, giving the appearance of some esteemed doctor or professor. If it’s a game of intimidation, Cassandra has a head start.
Cassandra herself looks eerily like Melissa. Tall, blonde, professional—though that’s where the similarities end. While Melissa talks with a hard authority that veils a deep compassion, Cassandra talks with a sense of kind sympathy that only thinly covers a hard-nosed insistency.
“Hi, Margo,” she says, as she finishes sending an email.
“Hi,” I say, smiling humbly.
“How are you settling in?” she asks, finally putting her phone to the side and looking at me expectantly.
“Good…all good.”
I’d like to add something about not having time to see much of the city, or about all the problems I’m having with my tiny apartment, or about struggling to get work done at home due to a lack of reliable internet signal—if only to have somebody to talk to about these things—but there’s a no-nonsense prickliness about Cassandra that only an idiot would try to test.
“Good,” Cassandra says, leaving plenty of empty space for awkwardness to brew. “What have you got ready for me?”
“I’m almost done with the summer ballet piece.”
Cassandra looks at me as if I’ve just made a comment about the Hubble telescope. “Well…Margo, we sort of wondered if you would hit the ground running, when you came.”
“Right. I guess it’s taking a little longer to get in the groove than I expected.”
“I can see that.” She clears her throat and leans forward. “Listen, Margo. You’re obviously very capable, and so we need you to really use those talents. You might have noticed that we hold ourselves to pretty high standards here.”
“Of course,” I say, growing more nervous. As if recognizing this, Cassandra pauses before speaking again, as if to let me squirm a little.
“I’ve just gone over some of your upcoming feature ideas, and well…”
“Yes?”
Cassandra frowns as she looks at her computer screen, then turns that frown toward me. “They’re a bit ‘Los Angeles,’ don’t you think?”
She says it in a tone that’s obviously expecting a response, but I don’t really have one other than, “Los Angeles?”
“Yes. You know.”
I try to kick my brain into a gear that would make sense of that, but it’s not clicking. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it,” I say, defeated.
“‘Fluffy,’” Cassandra deigns to explain. “A tad frivolous and trivial.”
I nod, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I see.”
“‘Populist,’ you know?” she adds, as if this will soften the blow of her last insult.
“Uh huh.”
“A bit too ‘fun.’”
“Right. I get it,” I say, trying to keep the fatigue out of my voice.
Cassandra smiles suddenly, warm and friendly—though the gesture is committed with the sincerity of somebody who’s taken a public relations course. “I’m assuming it’s just taking a little longer to shake the ‘L.A.’ out of you than we expected. You’re still on TrendBlend time,” she says, then laughs at her own joke.
I smile and chuckle as convincingly as I can and say, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Well then,” Cassandra says, picking up her phone again and starting to type on it. “Let’s check in tomorrow and see if we’ve made any progress, shall we? I’ve set a meeting for us at ten AM.”
“Ok, great,” I say, pushing down my panic and taking my cue to leave. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, Margo. Good talk,” Cassandra says sincerely, as if she’s actually done me the hugest of favors.
I march back to my desk stiffly—already walking like a New Yorker—and drop myself down in front of my computer screen. A wall of text I can barely understand anymore, its glare making my eyes hurt. I glance out the window, half-hoping to see the dusty L.A. light, the scattered twinkle of skyscrapers, as much empty space as it is palm trees and lush canyons and pale, sun beaten buildings—but all I see is the crumbling brick of the building across the narrow street. The sky too dark to see beyond the arched windows, their lights off, the space empty.
I make one final attempt to put my focus back into the piece, that ten AM deadline looming large in my mind, but then my stomach growls so loudly a person whose name I still don’t know glares at me from across the office. I raise a palm in apology and give up.
I turn off the computer, pack my bag, and start making my way home, through the hustle and bustle of the streets, through the crush of a subway rush hour, and pick up a burger and fries I’ve already finished by the time I’ve walked the three blocks to my apartment.
It’s a small place in Brooklyn, up on the third floor. On moving day the elevator was broken, so I had to walk up all those stairs with my meager stack of boxes, grateful that Louise had taken over my lease back in L.A. and that I hadn’t needed to pack up more of my things to send to the new place.
The first floor smells like one tenant’s infinite amount of cats all decided to pee at the same time. The second floor houses a guy with several dogs who regularly engage in barking competitions (probably induced by the cat smells), and above that is my tiny cramped apartment. A small main room, just about big enough for a single bed, a lamp, and a desk, and a kitchen area along one wall just about big enough for a mini-fridge, a hot plate and a folding table (as long as you squeeze through).
By the time I’m up the many flights of stairs and walking breathlessly down the hallway toward my door, I feel too exhausted to do anything but fall onto my bed and into a deep sleep. I’ll have to get up around four in the morning if I have any chance at finishing off this ballet piece before Cassandra’s ‘progress report’ tomorrow. Since I got to New York I’ve been too tired to do anything—including think. And though it’s hardly good for my health, I’m starting to feel grateful for it. There’s only one thing I would think about anyway, even though that—or rather, he—is over.
I look down at my bag to dig for my keys, and that’s when my sleep-deprived mind conjures the smell of his cologne. Feeling half-crazy, I shake my head at myself, but just as my fingers close around the metal key ring, someone steps out of the shadows.
I jump back, drop my bag, and paw at my jacket pocket for the pepper spray that Louise insisted I keep on me at all times.
“You’re still pissed at me, I take it?” Owen jokes, gesturing at the pepper spray I’m pointing at him. “You might want to take the safety cap off first.”
Adrenaline still pumping through my system, I look down at the pepper spray and then back up at his familiar face, his broad shoulders, the slightly wilted bouquet of flowers in his hand—and whether it’s my general fatigue, the stress of the day I just had at work, or my relief at finding Owen standing there after weeks of being surrounded by disinterested strangers, I burst out laughing.
“You scared me half to death,” I tell him as I
start to calm down.
Owen smiles and stoops to pick up my dropped bag.
“Sorry,” he says, holding out the flowers. “These could use some water, I think. I’ve been waiting awhile.”
“Wait…how?” I moan, bringing a hand to my head and rubbing furiously, as if half expecting him to disappear like a mirage, unsure even of what’s going on anymore. “How did you find me?”
“Your sister gave me your address, but only after I promised her I was coming here to tell you I’m sorry for being such a dick. And I am sorry, Margo. I couldn’t give you what you needed and I was a shitty friend on top of that. After you left I realized that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing when it comes to you. All I know for sure is, I did it wrong. You deserved better.”
I look at him, confused as hell as I try to process the words, but all out of questions. His smile drops, and for the first time since the last night we spent together I catch a glimpse of something behind those eyes. A shape of his real feelings, of the side of himself he hides so constantly, so successfully.
“Come inside,” I finally manage. “I’ll put some tea on.”
We step into the tiny apartment and I gesture at the little table and folding chairs as I fill the kettle and set it on the hot plate to heat up. But Owen doesn’t sit down.
“The place is…nice,” he says, turning in a slow circle to look at the meager space.
“It’s New York,” I shrug, setting the cups and teabags on the table. While I get the flowers Owen brought me situated in an empty orange juice carton, Owen stands at the window looking out at the street, as if gathering his thoughts. When the kettle whistles I pour the water, then collapse into a chair and gesture for him to do the same.
“You didn’t have to come all the way here to apologize,” I say. “I’m sorry we didn’t part on better terms but…” I trail off, my mind suddenly flooded with memories of his naked body, our inside jokes, the lattes he’d bring me at work, the way it felt to fall asleep next to him. I shake my head, trying to banish the thoughts. “Anyway. It didn’t work out. No hard feelings. I still consider you a friend.”
“A friend,” he repeats, locking his gaze onto mine.
I nod and look away, lifting my teacup to hide the blush in my cheeks.
As I listen to the city sounds blaring outside my windows, I feel like my chest is caving in. Because what I really want is for him to climb in bed with me, tell me he wants me—not just for now but for always. I want him to fuck away my exhaustion and my job stress and this loud, cold, indifferent city. I want him to tell me we can fix this. But my rational mind knows that a clean break is the best thing for both of us.
“Before you kick me out, I brought you something,” he says, his voice low and deep with earnestness, as if it’s emanating from somewhere deep within his soul. He holds out his hand and I open my palm to take it.
When I draw my hand back I see he’s given me a tiny stud earring with a green stone set inside of it. Something about it looks familiar, enough to tug frustratingly at the edges of my mind, but I’m either too tired or too confused to figure it out.
“What is this?” I ask, looking up at him. “Is this mine?”
“Yeah,” Owen says. “You remember a few months after we met, I was going to give you a ride to some concert, but for some reason we just decided not to go?”
“Yeah, I remember. We went and got tacos instead. Drove around all night.”
“That’s right.” He nods. “Just back and forth up and down Pacific Coast Highway. Listening to music, just…you know, talking.”
I smile at him. “Yeah. I remember.”
“You dropped that in my car. I kept it. I figured it would give me a good excuse to see you again if I ever needed it.” Owen pauses, a little more seriousness in his eyes now. “Except you’ve been there for me ever since. So I never needed it before. Well…until now.”
I look down again at the earring, shaking in my trembling hand. Suddenly it feels like Owen is filling the room with his presence, and I almost break down. I open my mouth to speak, though my mind is still lost somewhere in the memory evoked.
Suddenly he sweeps close, lifting me out of the chair to clutch my body to his, crushing his lips on mine to kiss me in a way that makes everything disappear. A kiss that says more than a thousand words ever could, lips touching only as an extension of our souls, and for a second I feel closer to him than I’ve ever felt, as if we’re one.
When he pulls away I feel like a different woman, as if the kiss were some barrier crossed, never to go back from. A kiss as good as a commitment.
“I love you, Margo,” he says with the hard authenticity of a man who’s spent his whole life running from the word. “I think I always have, and I know I always will. I know this job is your dream, and I don’t want to take that from you, or try to make you come back, but I just had to say the words out loud. So you’d know.”
“Owen,” I whisper, putting a palm against that face, as if making sure he’s real. “I love you too.”
He brings his forehead to mine and we stay there, as if discovering a paradise in this moment, an escape from all the struggles and pain around us, the trials that led us to this point.
“I don’t know what we do from here. Where we go. But I needed to tell you,” he says soft and low. “I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.”
I smile and try to keep the joy from making me cry, the happiness cracking open inside of me like some long-locked box. “It doesn’t matter where we go anymore,” I say, the words channeling from some deeper place. “As long as we’re there together.”
21
Owen
“Are you sure you know how to do this?” Margo says, gripping my hand tightly in the cargo hold of the plane.
She asked me the same thing the last time we were on a plane together, except that time we weren’t strapped to each other and waiting for them to open the door while we were still ten thousand feet in the air. The last time she asked me that she was talking about something completely different.
“It’s gonna be fun,” I say, kissing her forehead and smiling at her. “Relax. You’re with me, ok?” Margo looks up at me, still nervous, though she manages to nod. I turn to the camera that the other parachutist is pointing at us and wink. “I really hope this video is worth it.”
A lot can happen in two weeks. One minute you’re half-drunk, getting on a plane to the East Coast to try and win back the woman you lost so badly you wonder if there’s any hope at all that you’ll succeed. The next you’re about to jump out of one with that same woman for an extreme dating show. I guess both times I took a leap of faith, but this one is a hell of a lot easier.
Margo quit her job at the New York Month the same night I went there. Turns out some dreams are better than others. We spent one night in the city, making love in her single bed, its smallness irrelevant as we clutched and pressed ourselves against each other, unwilling to let go for a second lest we lose each other again. New York rain lashing against the windows, calls and car horns from the street below our only reminder that the world was still ticking while we existed in a perfect moment.
The next day we took a plane back to Los Angeles, and after a few more days of hiding out in my apartment (why rush the announcement?), I brought Margo back to TrendBlend where she received a welcome like a hero’s return. Melissa was only too happy to rehire her, not least because Brad was fired while I was away. It’s way easier to be shit at your job when nobody’s looking, and as soon as Melissa found out Brad had hired some teenage essay-writer to create a review of a new album, she called him into the office for a vicious reaming about plagiarism and journalistic integrity that they could hear in the building across the street.
The jump supervisor gestures for us to draw closer to the door, where all of our straps, clips, and chutes are double-checked. Margo’s strapped to my front, close enough to me that I can almost feel her anxiety through the layers of the jumpsuit.
; “You guys ready?” he calls out over the loud thrum of the engine.
He slams the door open, revealing a sky so clear there’s no question about how high we are, the ground so far away beyond the flossy clouds it’s like looking at a map.
I give a thumbs up, and a second later Margo does too.
“Ok,” he says and we move forward to the door, my hands on the frame, the wind against our faces. Margo pulls her goggles down, and screams from the nearness of the jump.
So here we are, being filmed as we jump out of an airplane for our new web series. Melissa was wrong—for once—the fans didn’t mind the change in focus at all. In fact, they spent the last couple of weeks terrorizing all the comments sections of every other video on the site, asking where the hell Margo and I had gone and when we were coming back.
Margo’s first job as soon as she returned to work was to film a two-minute video with me. A low-key thing at our desks, announcing that the dating vlog was over because we were together now. It wasn’t meant to be a big deal, just a short explanation of what was going on, except it turned into the biggest video of the month, racking up a couple million views and hundreds of thousands of comments.
Melissa didn’t have a choice. When almost your entire audience is begging for a new video series with the hot new couple, you give them what they want. It was Margo’s idea to do the extreme dating series. I guess spending a week chained to that desk in NYC taught her that the last thing she wanted was the expected. ‘I wanna do something really L.A.,’ she’d said. ‘Something fun.’